


John makes him human

by cassieking13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, I Don't Even Know, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieking13/pseuds/cassieking13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John makes him human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John makes him human

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know what this is supposed to be but I'm sick of looking at it so I'm just gonna post it and hope it's not as bad ass I think it is. 
> 
> Also, my POV is so sloppy it hurts and I'm pretty positive I misused irony.

Sherlock Holmes sees all the difference in people, sees all the secrets and all the damage. He knows every moment, every breath, you’ve tried so desperately to hide and he will use it against you. 

John Watson should be scared of him, should leave him, should be disgusted by his knowledge like everyone else in Sherlock’s life and run before it’s too late.  
But he doesn’t run.

John Watson is a storm waiting to break wrapped in jumpers and jeans, he’s years of military experience held in check by the delicate grace of a surgeon’s hands, he’s every bit as dangerous as Sherlock Holmes in a completely different way. 

And he revels in the constant threat Sherlock presents. He breathes the fumes of chemicals and curses the presence of body parts in the fridge and he lives a life nobody else would call normal and he loves every second of it.

[][][][][]

Mrs. Hudson gives Sherlock the flat because she remembered the way he’d glared her husband down when he raised a hand to hit her. She knew someone so easily defensive of someone he just met would make a good renter. 

Sherlock was by no means a good renter. He left heads in her fridge, played that atrocious violin at all hours of the morning, and could never remember to close the door. But she couldn’t find the heart to kick him out. 

John was a nice surprise. He got rid of the more decomposed body parts, closed the door behind him, and calmed Sherlock down. The screeching violin became beautiful compositions that were really very pleasant to listen to and she even managed to coax him into playing for her every now and again. 

John softened some of Sherlock’s rougher edges and helped keep the boy out of trouble. Or at the very least patched him up after. 

The cases continued, police men calling in the middle of the night with a new murder or robbery for the boys to go running off to solve. She endured them coming home late at night, loud and excited. She adjusted to their strange habits and stranger clients. 

What she wasn’t happy about were the men who tired her to a chair and beat her like her husband used to do. But she knew her boys would come and save her. Later, when they’d come and she was freed, John sat with her while Sherlock threw a man out the window. Several times. 

She tossed a throw blanket over them when they fell asleep on her couch that night and silently wished that they would get together already. She loved weddings.

[][][][][]

Lestrade met Sherlock when he wandered onto a crime scene high and began spouting off facts about the victim. He threw the man in a cell to sober up and offered him a job if he cleaned up. Sherlock ripped through every case he handed him like it was easy to know the world’s secrets in a second and insulted every officer on the scene. They chain smoked cigarettes outside the Yard and had a running competition to see who needed the most nicotine patches to stay relatively sane. 

Dealing with Sherlock was in no way easy. In fact it was a bitch and a half. But he adapted. He got used to dealing with a petulant toddler and adjusted to feeling like a single dad. To be fair, Sherlock only slipped three times that Lestrade knew of. 

Didn’t make seeing him spread out on the floor or couch or alley any easier to stomach. The first time nearly gave him a heart attack, the violent convulsing of Sherlock’s body terrifying. After that it just gets worse. 

John comes and Sherlock gets better. He’s easier to manage, more human. Lestrade stops worrying about how skinny Sherlock is when he notices John making him eat during cases. Nothing big, carrot sticks from a baggie and biscuits mostly. It shocks him the first time Sherlock pauses while examining a body to grab a carrot stick from John, happily munching on it as he bends to examine the victim’s fingernails. 

Sherlock remembers his birthday with John around. He gives him back his badge with a red bow on it. Lestrade grins with pride, the non-detective inspector side of him proud of Sherlock for being so skilled at pick pocketing. The rest of him sighs wearily and tries to watch his pockets.  
Sherlock Holmes will never be the easiest person to deal with but John makes him human. 

[][][][][]

My brother has never been the best of the world. A complete idiot for most of his childhood, petulant in his teen years, and downright childish when he became an adult. The drugs didn’t helped anything, elevated so many annoying qualities in him, like his insufferable habit of picking out my shortcomings. 

The detective helped, sobered him up, gave him something to focus on. But Sherlock was still…difficult. He was out to all hours, nearly emaciated half the time, and when he did slip up, he did so catastrophically, overdosing all three times. It was a nightmare watching him recover every time he fell off the wagon. 

Then came John. The little soldier boy come marching home. He wouldn’t agree to spy on Sherlock for me, didn’t accept the money, craved the thrill of chasing Sherlock throughout London. He lost his limp after he unthinkingly chased after Sherlock, running after him despite the danger and shot a man for him within a day of knowing him.  
He became the only thing keeping my brother alive. Sherlock craved his attention more than drugs and sought to keep John happy at every turn. It’d be sickening if it wasn’t the only effective rehab he’d found so far. 

Oh, well. I guess I’ll just have to put up with the two of them. At least John accepts my phone calls.

[][][][][]

The quiet of Baker St. is cut by the gentle sounds of a bow chasing a melody along the strings of a violin. Sherlock stood tall and pale against the window of 221B, he back straight as he drug the bow down again and pushed a long, sweet note out into the sleepy morning.

He continued playing, swaying in time to the melody, remembering gunshots, sword fights, and brilliant deductions as the song continued. Smiles and exclamations of shock and awe echo through the bridge, while the smell of Italian and tea fill the long, low notes of the chorus. It’s all tied together by Sherlock’s deep baritone humming along. 

When the last note hung heavy in the air, thrumming with the emotion and memory Sherlock was still swamped in, he only barely registered John’s question from behind him.  
“What’s that?” Sherlock doesn’t hesitate; answering “It’s an unnamed piece by Vivaldi.” as his brain prompts him to say John.

"It's very nice." John compliments him, turning back to his newspaper."You should play it more often." Sherlock huffs a silent laugh at the irony.


End file.
